A billion stars and a tiny car
by camellialice
Summary: Molly had sworn that helping Sherlock Holmes fake his death would be the last time she'd assist him with one of his crazy plans. Yet here she was, driving to Moscow in a too-small car. At least she had help this time: the beautiful and odd Irene Adler.
1. Chapter 1

Molly got into her car, sighed, and leaned her forehead against the steering wheel. It had been a trying day, to say the least, and the only thing that could possibly have made it worse would have been the arrival of Sherlock Holmes. It was an unavoidable correlation: Too many of Molly's perfectly satisfactory days had been unceremoniously ruined by the dramatic entrance of one consulting detective.

But of course, there was no Sherlock Holmes to sweep in and goad her into lending body parts and blood samples, no Sherlock Holmes to pester her with questions one moment and ignore her the next, no Sherlock Holmes to make her feel like crap and doubt her position. Technically, there was no Sherlock Holmes. As anyone who knew anything about current events could tell you, he had jumped off a roof and killed himself.

But he hadn't, Molly knew. And the more trouble his fake disappearance caused, the more she wished she didn't know. Yet here she was, about to drive home to a (probably empty, despite all the warnings she gives him) flat filled with various experiments and belongings of the detective. But to the rest of the world, he was gone. All that was left was-

_Beepboop._

Molly groaned and checked her phone.

ANDREW BISHOP - SH

"You've got to be kidding me," she muttered. "Who the hell is Andrew Bishop?"

"It's my new alias," announced Sherlock from the back seat.

Molly let out a cry of despair and slumped against the steering wheel again.

Her bad day had just bypassed horrid, dreadful and disastrous on its way to "shit."

* * *

"So you're leaving," said Molly in an attempt to recap the previous five minutes. They had been a long and very confusing five minutes.

"Yes," Sherlock said slowly, as if speaking to a particularly stupid child.

"I'm sorry, but where do I come into this?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in a way that suggested he was struggling to contain his patience. "I can't do this without assistance. Once I am situated, I need you to supply me with a box of core necessities to aid me in my endeavor."

"And these supplies are...?"

"Irrelevant. What's important right now is your cooperation. Do I have it?"

Molly considered. It would be so easy to say no, to get out of this mess forever. Yet... She HAD promised to help...

"Where exactly am I going?"

"Moscow. It's only a couple days' drive."

Jesus, that was far away.

"What about work?"

"It'll be taken care of." He was watching her very carefully. She inhaled slowly and pulled the car up in front of her building, avoiding his stare. She turned off the engine and sighed. Stamford would kill her but hey, when Sherlock said things would be taken care of, they got taken care of.

"I'll do it."

"Excellent." He hopped out of the car and strode toward the building. She grabbed her bag and ran to catch up.

"But- Wait-"

In the elevator he turned around to face her again. "Of course, it will be dangerous."

"Dangerous?" She squeaked.

"Naturally. These are Moriarty's men. Once they realize you're aiding me, they'll try to kill you."

"You really should have mentioned this before I agreed to help..."

"Nonsense, you'll be fine. But to be safe, that's why you're not going alone."

The door slid open with a soft _ding_ and they started down the hallway.

"Not going alone? I'll be working with someone? With who?"

"Friend of mine. Owes me a favor." Sherlock stopped suddenly. "You keep going. I'll catch up." He disappeared.

Suspicious, Molly cautiously crept down the hallway. Once she reached her flat, she pressed her ear to the door to listen for any activity, but heard nothing. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

She had finally relaxed her guard when she walked into the kitchen and was thrown by the presence of a strange woman, sitting at her table and texting.

"Erm, hello?"

The woman didn't look up.

"Um, hi, er, this is my home… Um, what are you doing here?"

"I'm here to help," the woman drawled, still fixated on her phone.

"I'm sorry, but who are you?"

The woman looked up. She was gorgeous in every way that Molly had ever desired to be, the kind of face of perfection that teenage girls everywhere aspired towards. She looked at Molly curiously, as if trying to figure her out. The puzzled feeling was mutual, as Molly could have sworn she'd seen her face before. "You must be Ms. Hooper." She stated it simply; it wasn't a question.

That's when Molly realized where she'd seen her face before. The obituaries.

The woman had stood out to her because she was so extraordinarily beautiful, and Molly had been struck by the tale of how she was captured by terrorists or something and executed. It was tragic, like a romantic novel. She remembered wondering if the beautiful woman had had a fiancé… he'd probably be breathtakingly dashing.

But that wasn't important. No, the important thing was the executed woman was _here,_ in Molly's flat and apparently breathing.

Molly gaped. "You're dead," is all she managed to say, and clumsily at that.

The woman leaned forward. "You're adorable." The door swung open behind Molly and Sherlock entered with a crumpled paper bag. She turned to him. "Is she yours?"

Molly felt her cheeks go red. "I'm not anybody's," she said hotly.

"Ah, Molly," Sherlock said blithely. "I see you've met Irene Adler."

"It's a pleasure, Miss Hooper," cooed Irene Adler, extending a long thin hand in greeting.

"Um, yes. Very nice to meet you." Molly shook her hand gingerly, as if afraid it might shatter.

The day had gotten very weird very, very fast.

"Do you have a cardboard box, Molly?" asked Sherlock, and then dived behind the counter before she could answer- which was worrisome, because she was quite sure she didn't, unless-

"Aha!" Sherlock reappeared with the box in question. "You really shouldn't throw these things away, Molly, they're very useful."

"I—" Molly starts, and then doesn't quite know how to phrase the question "Did you really just go through my rubbish, you bastard? What happened to boundaries?" in such company as Irene Adler, and besides, Sherlock Holmes had never respected boundaries in all the time she'd known him.

"Right then," said Sherlock, gently placing his paper bag in the box and sealing it with tape. "This is what I'll need delivered to me in Moscow. Neither one of you is to open it, and I will know if you have. I'm leaving in-" (here he glanced at the clock) "-two hours and I need to get some things in order, so here is your assignment. Molly, your new name is Jennifer Green, and your lovely partner here is Catherine Undershaw."

"Erm, partner?" clarified Molly, and received the "how idiotic are you" look in response.

"Yes, partner. You two are recently engaged for a civil partnership, you've been together for four years and in celebration are going on vacation to Moscow. Now—"

"Yes, yes, we know," interrupted Irene.

"She doesn't." Sherlock was glaring, actually glaring at Irene.

"Yes but I do, and I can inform her. Run along now, sweetie, we've got everything under control. Don't worry your pretty little head about it."

Sherlock's glare grew in proportion but he reluctantly seemed to agree. "Fine. I'll be in contact, you both have my number." And here he sent another impressive scowl in Irene's direction; Molly was shocked the woman didn't explode from the force of it. Rather, Irene smiled sweetly, and Sherlock turned away.

"Let me know if anything goes wrong," he called over his shoulder, and  
disappeared.

"I hope you don't mind my staying here tonight, Miss Hooper," said Irene, turning her attention back to Molly. "I'm a bit of a fugitive at the moment, and if we're leaving tomorrow, we'd better get to know each other." She smiled brilliantly and Molly felt her throat go dry.

"Erm, it's Molly," she said. "I mean, you can call me Molly. If you want."

"Alright then, Molly," said Irene. I'll just go get my things, shall I?"

She stood up swiftly, pulled on her coat, and followed Sherlock out the door.

Molly waited a moment before checking to confirm that there was no one else hiding anywhere in her house with an important message or mission, and then sighed, leaning against the counter. Her back brushed up against the box Sherlock had left. It wasn't even that big- how could something so small be so important?

And why did _she_ have to deliver it?

It was going to be quite a long couple of days.

She gathered her thoughts and stood up. There was no time to waste in feeling sorry for herself or wondering how the hell she'd gotten herself into this situation. She'd better start packing.


	2. Chapter 2

A.N: Ciel&Vitawash: Thanks for the encouragement! 3 I've got plans for this story, oh yes... *rubs hands together evilly*

* * *

Molly woke up with a dreadful headache. She slowly pried her eyes open and yelped, burying her face back in the covers of her bed. She took a moment to collect her thoughts, then crept out again.

"When did you get here?"

"Last night," said Irene Adler, sitting cheerfully on the edge of her bed. "The door was locked, but I let myself in. You don't mind, do you? I figured you'd gone to sleep."

Molly blearily tried to remember the events of the previous evening. She hadn't made it very long past packing, the day had been so crazy and surprising that she went to bed hours earlier than usual to digest it all. And apparently forgotten about Irene.

"I'm so sorry, I—"

"No worries, I was fine. I've made you some tea, if you like." And with that she disappeared.

Molly stretched and rolled out of bed lazily. As she glanced around her bedroom it struck her that she was leaving, actually leaving, for the longest trip she'd been on since that horrid family vacation in seventh grade. With an absolute stranger. She reached out and gently touched the flowery wallpaper and a curious sadness welled up in her throat. She'd miss this: her bed, her home, her job, Toby….

Toby?

He always slept on the bed with her, as a rule. (He had a lot of rules, and he followed them strictly.) But he wasn't there. A wave of panic rose up inside of her and she struggled to keep from freaking out. Toby was a constant, a source of stability in her otherwise nearly intolerable life.

So where was he?

She pulled on some pants (praying that they matched her shirt, she didn't have time to check) and ran out of the room, trying to control her breathing. Not in her room, not in the bathroom, not on the couch…

Because he was in the kitchen.

Rubbing against Irene Adler's leg.

Despite Molly's deep-seated love for the cat, even she had to admit that he was not the most friendly of felines. Aside from herself, there were few humans he'd tolerate being in the same room as, and even then his taste wasn't very reliable. The last person he'd liked as much as he seemed to like Irene had been Jim.

But that memory hurt, so Molly pushed it away.

"It's Toby, isn't it?" Irene asked, scratching him under his chin. "Sweet little kitty. He spent the night with me last night, didn't you, Toby?"

Toby mewed. Molly felt dizzy.

"Tea's done," Irene announced, patting Toby one last time and reaching around for a yellow mug. "French Vanilla. Your favorite, isn't it?"

"How did you know?"

Irene shrugged. "The box was half empty and the other two were nearly untouched. Besides, you had an extra box in the cupboard. Easy."

Molly should be used to this sort of thing from Sherlock, but she isn't. "Wow. Well done!"

"Oh, you know what they say." Irene's eyes twinkled merrily. "Brainy's the new sexy."

Molly took a moment to ponder this, but failing to come up with an intelligible retort she sipped her tea. It was delicious.

"I loaded the car with the bags so that we can leave as soon as you're ready," Irene said, passing a critical eye over Molly's haphazard outfit.

"Thank you," Molly said gratefully because really, the woman was being too kind.

"Oh, it's fine, I like having someone to take care of." Then Irene winked and whisked off. Toby mewed irritably and waddled over to Molly in search of attention. She scratched his head absentmindedly.

"I'll have to find someone to take care of you while I'm gone, buddy."

* * *

The goodbyes were tearful. Well, at least on Molly's part—Toby didn't cry but she was sure that if he was human he might have. And besides, she didn't cry too much, not with Irene standing there. She hugged Toby tightly and promised to return as soon as possible, until eventually Irene coughed gently and Molly let go.

The little turquoise car was piled with bags, which was alarming. Molly could have sworn that she'd only had three at max, which meant… wow, Irene didn't pack lightly in the least. The woman caught her staring and smiled. "You never know when you might need a disguise."

The two of them barely fit amongst all of the packs and suitcases. It was a good car, certainly, and Molly had always appreciated it, but for the first time she found herself wishing that it was maybe a bit larger.

The trip began quite uneventfully. There was some traffic leaving London and Greg called to frantically ask where the cat food was kept (Molly could hear Toby growl in the background, which wasn't good), and Sherlock texted to ensure that they'd left on time. Irene insisted on being able to respond to the text and did so with a smirk. Molly had no idea what she sent, but Sherlock did not text either of them again all day.

Hovering over the both of them was the uneasy silence of two strangers who have nothing to say to each other. Molly hoped desperately the whole trip would not be like this, but there was no way of telling. She simply didn't know where to begin with Irene- was it tasteless to mention her death? Would she be amused or repulsed by jokes about the morgue?

"So, what do you do?" Molly finally ventured to ask after an hour of quiet.

"I give people what they like."

"Like what?" Custom-order flower bunches? No, Irene didn't look like a florist.

"I'm a dominatrix," supplied Irene, and that conversation ended rapidly.

Irene suggested a small café for lunch that turned out to be delightful. Molly ordered a cup of soup and Irene asked for the Vegetarian Lunch Special, which turned out to be a blend of noodles, veggies and tofu.

"Are you vegetarian?" She asked, out of pure curiosity.

"No."

And another conversation died a quick, painful death.

Irene Adler was odd, Molly decided. Not in the obvious ways, like her profession, for example, but there were little details that stood out. She reminded her of Sherlock, almost. They both had this way of looking at people, like they could see through skin and flesh and bone all the way down to your soul. And sometimes, when Irene didn't turn away fast enough, Molly caught her staring at her, no, analyzing her as if she were some sort of specimen she couldn't figure out. Molly remembered when Sherlock would do that too, although now he's become so accustomed to her that he barely glances twice at her.

But Irene had this way of smiling that was different from Sherlock's smiles. They were less artificial, more practiced. And she had actually made Molly tea. She was friendly, not in a too-close Jim sort of way but in a comfortable way. So like Sherlock but more social skills.

It was kind of nice, actually.

And Molly was staring again. And Irene had noticed. Shit.

Molly blushed and looked away and Irene just smiled and twirled her Vegetarian Special noodles around her fork.

* * *

After lunch the silence was a little less uncomfortable, though still awkward. But Molly was absolutely determined to find _something_ to talk about.

"So, you and Sherlock then…" She began.

"What?" That's alarming, thought Molly, she's genuinely caught off guard.

"Well, you know?"

"I'm not sure I do."

Molly sighed. "The looks you two were giving each other. Not to pry or anything, but, um, they were… suggestive. No, not in that way, more like—it seemed like there was something there, that's all."

This silence was painful, and Molly willed for it to either end soon or let her die from embarrassment.

"There is nothing going on between Sherlock Holmes and I," Irene finally said, in the tone of someone who had a very long story but was very firmly not going to tell it.

"Right. No, of course not, it's just—"

"But you?"

"Me?"

"You fancy him, don't you?" Irene's voice had switched very quickly, now it was teasing, playful. Molly almost felt like she was experiencing whiplash.

"No, I…. Not—No. No, I don't."

"I see." A smile crept across Irene's lips, but she left it at that.

* * *

Dinner was quick and quiet, and then they were back to the seemingly endless highway. By the end of the day they'd made it into Belgium, which was actually really exciting for Molly.

"I've never driven to another country before," she explained to Irene, who smiled at her like she was some sort of adorable puppy.

"Aren't you tired?" Irene asked.

"Yes, actually… could we find someplace to stop for the night?"

Irene nodded and they drove on. It was a beautiful night, quiet and peaceful, and it had just fallen dark—

When suddenly Irene shouted something and grabbed the wheel and Molly screamed and the car flew off the road.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A.N.** Heehee, sorry about the cliffhanger... I couldn't resist! Anywho, this one's a bit shorter, but sweet, so enjoy!_

* * *

Molly was dimly aware that she was screaming in a highly undignified manner which would most likely embarrass her later on, but at the moment, she didn't care. It felt like time had slowed down from the moment Irene grabbed the wheel: the world turned, the horizon tilted, Molly fell to the side and smashed against the window and the car was sliding down a hill off of the road. Irene's knuckles were white but she didn't scream, unlike Molly, whose heart was racing, adrenaline pumping, breath barely there.

Then suddenly it was all over. The car screeched to a halt at the bottom of the hill, spinning slightly, and Molly gasped for air. Irene left without saying a word, slamming the door behind her. Molly took a moment to pant and find some sort of stability. She felt sick.

"It's safe," said Irene, sliding back into her seat. "He's gone."

Molly cleared her throat. "What was that?"

"He was coming up behind us, about to knock us off the road."

"So you finished the job, then?"

Irene's glare could cut steel. "I kept him from hitting us. You're welcome."

"Sorry, I just- D'you think he was one of Moriarty's men?"

"Doubtless." Irene disappeared.

Molly stared through the windshield, watching the yellow blazes of headlights streak across the dark of the night, adrenaline keeping her wide awake. Someone had tried to kill her. Someone had actually, intentionally, made an attempt to end her life.

It was always difficult to get used to.

She took a few moments to calm down and think rationally again. Running through the incident over and over in her head, each time she felt more and more humiliated. They'd almost died, and she'd screamed like a baby while Irene had saved them. She ought to thank her, but what if Irene didn't even want to _look_ at her after that? This trip was off to a fantastic start.

Eventually the indecision screaming in Molly's head was unbearable, and she slipped out into the open air.

Irene was leaning against the back of the car, head tilted up to look at the stars. Molly stood next to her awkwardly (suddenly very aware that almost her entire life had been awkward, and gosh, that was depressing).

It took her a while to open her mouth, but when she did, the words tumbled out automatically.

"Look, I'm really sorry about all that, I panicked and I didn't know what to do and if you hadn't been there I-"

"Shhhhhh. It's fine."

Molly silenced herself immediately. She watched Irene for a bit, absorbing the quiet power held in the woman, the serenity of her stargazing.

"You remind me of him."

Irene was startled, and broke her gaze away from the sky. "Sorry?"

"You know. You two are very similar."

A smile twitched on Irene's lips. "Is that a compliment?"

"Um, yeah. It is."

"Well, thank you."

"I did fancy him, you know. Like a school girl's crush? Not that I fancy you, I didn't mean- well, not that you're not, you know, but I'm not gay-" Irene actually looked like she might laugh but Molly forged ahead. "I just... I mean, I was smitten, I really was, but I never really had much luck with dating... First him, then Jim..." She trailed off.

"You don't have to talk about it."

"But I want to," Molly insisted. "No one talks about it to my face, except Sherlock, but I dated a mass-murdering psychopath! I mean, they all whisper of course, but they don't know what it was like and... I dunno, it's just kind of lonely."

"I know what you mean."

"Really?"

Irene turned to face her fully. "I worked for him."

Molly felt her jaw drop, and quickly shut it.

"That's how I met Sherlock. I'm not proud of it, you know, but I did it anyway. It was smart and safe and I thought it would help me. In a way, I guess it did."

"Are you and him still... you know..."

"Oh, god no! I worked for him, it failed, he tried to kill me. We're not exactly friends."

"He tried to kill me too. He wasn't very good at it."

Irene smirked and turned back. "I did love Sherlock, by the way. I was supposed to seduce him and I got... carried away."

Amazed, Molly finally leaned against the car next to Irene. "You seduced Sherlock Holmes?"

"That's more or less what John Watson said. Is it really so surprising?"

Molly thought back to innumerable times she'd asked Sherlock out to coffee. "Yes."

"Well, it doesn't matter, it was never reciprocated."

"Really?" It was hard to believe, they seemed perfectly matched. Equally beautiful, nearly equally brilliant... it was like some deity had created them for each other. "I'm sorry."

Irene shrugged. "Oh, I'm quite over it. But it stung." She smiled at Molly. "I'm used to getting what I want."

This, at least, was easy to imagine.

"I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm telling you all this..."

"It's okay," Molly reassured her, "I've got one of those faces, people like telling me things."

But it was incredible, it really was, that a woman so secretive and closed off would suddenly be so vulnerable, so open. It was almost like seeing Irene for the first time, Molly thought, the stars reflected in her eyes and her hair in a loose ponytail, leaning against the turquoise car seeming without a care, revealing all sorts of secrets. And in that instant she seemed so lonely: A dazzlingly beautiful woman with probably dozens of associates, and no one to tell these things to. No one who would listen, maybe no one she could trust. But here Molly could ask her anything, even why she faked her death (though Molly had already figured it out) and receive an honest answer.

"They're so beautiful," murmured Irene.

"The stars?"

Irene nodded. "And so many of them. Sometimes I go out at night and just watch them and feel so small."

Molly understood perfectly. "If working in a morgue didn't already reassure my convictions of the futility of human existence, these stars might do it."

Irene turned and looked at her, really looked, as if she were reading Molly off the page of a book, and Molly was struck by the horrible realization that she'd just made a _morgue joke_, oh god oh god how awful-

And Irene burst out laughing and Molly nervously joined in and then the two of them stayed there for a while, watching the stars and the world go by and laughing with each other.


	4. Chapter 4

**A.N: **_I have a beta now! So hats off to Lauren for being amazing and putting up with some terrible rough drafts._

* * *

Molly Hooper had spent enough time being Molly Hooper to learn that whenever she got involved in a situation, it inevitably ended up awkward. She'd always accepted it as one of the facts of life, but that doesn't mean she was comfortable with it; instead, she had become proficient at blushing, a master of embarrassment. No one could get awkward better than Molly.  
This perpetual problem was not in the least aided by the presence of Irene Adler, whose seeming inability to be embarrassed means that Molly got doubly so, in order to make up for it. It also means that this long road trip in a very small, very cramped car was one of the more awkward events of Molly's lifetime.

Like the time when they were just sitting, having a pleasant meal in a lovely bed and breakfast, and Irene snaked her hand across the table and interlaced her fingers with Molly's. Molly had frozen, unable to move or think, her whole head suddenly clouded by a buzz of panic.  
When she finally got her thoughts together, she whispered, "What are you doing?"  
Irene smiled and responded, loud enough for other diners to hear, "We're engaged, aren't we darling?"  
Memory rushed back to Molly and she said dumbly, "Oh, right. Sorry."  
And suddenly other people were staring at them and Irene just smiled and blew a kiss across the table.  
That was when Molly got so flustered that she knocked over her tea and had to request a new cup, and watch Irene smirk at her while the disgruntled waiter wiped up the spill.

Or there was that time when they were checking into a motel and Irene casually looped an arm around Molly's waist. Molly could actually feel her fingertips on her side, was highly aware of every point of contact between them, like volts of electricity vibrating where they touched. Her heart was beating fast, a thousand beats per minute, her face was flushing red and she tried very hard to focus and keep her wits. The last thing she wanted was a repeat of the Dreaded Tea Incident, and eyed the cup of pencils on the desk warily, hoping that no ill would come of it.

Meanwhile, the woman at the desk smiled sweetly and asked if that would be one king size, then, and Irene simply grinned lewdly in response. Molly froze in fear. Irene tugged slightly at her to go to their room, and when she didn't budge at first Irene whispered, "Come on, honey" into her ear and kissed her cheek.

Molly tripped over her own feet and landed face-first next to a potted plant.  
At least she missed the pencil cup entirely.

The third (and possibly worst) of these came when Molly had gone out for a stroll and arrived back to the motel room late. It had been pouring rain, and she stood there dripping outside the room, trying desperately to fit the key into the hole. When she finally got the door open she gaped at the sight inside, closed the door out of courtesy, remembered that it was raining, tried to reopen the door, dropped the key, and suddenly the door swung open for her.  
"Erm, hi?" Molly whimpered, trying to look anywhere but straight forward.  
"Hello, sweetie," said Irene. "God, it's wet."  
"I'm really really sorry, I can come back later, I didn't mean to-"  
"Oh no, it's fine, I was just reading."  
Molly gulped. The rain poured. She wondered if strangers were looking out of their windows and witnessing this. The thought made her even more anxious.  
"Um, do you want to, maybe, put some clothes on? It's just, it's very cold and-"  
"Oh no, I'm fine. But come in, you must be freezing! Would you like a towel?"  
Molly stepped inside the room automatically, staring at her feet. God, this was so awkward. She'd been in plenty of uncomfortable situations before, but this certainly topped them all. She hadn't even done anything to deserve this one, all she'd done was come home! Which is approximately when the thought struck her: She hadn't done anything to deserve the first one, either. Or the second. In fact, she hadn't done anything at all.  
Molly charged up to Irene (courage faltering somewhat when she was met with the sight of a body that remained quite uncovered) and planted in front of her, gazing resolutely straight into her eyes, and not even wavering downwards a bit, thank you very much.  
"You're trying to embarrass me," she accused.  
Irene didn't react with shame or guilt in the slightest. Instead she shrugged (don't look down don't look down) and lounged on the bed, smiling lazily.  
"And if I am?"  
"Why?"  
"Lots of reasons. Some professional, others... not so much."  
"Professional? Like your... job?"  
Irene laughed. "No, I mean it's hard to hide who you are when you've had a fright. And now I've seen you, plain as day. It's quite simple, really."  
"And the others?"  
Irene got up and stood right in front of Molly. She reached out a perfectly manicured hand and gently stroked her cheek. "You're adorable when you're flustered."  
"I am not!"  
Irene just laughed and said, "There, you see?"  
And they were standing so close to each other and Molly could feel Irene's breath on her face and she leaned forward involuntarily, because Irene had a gravity of her own that just pulled people in towards her, dragged them in no matter what. One of her signature smirks twitched across Irene's lips and Molly felt a hand slide up to cradle the back of her neck.  
She closed her eyes, and let Irene close the distance between them.


	5. Chapter 5

The moment their lips touched it was like an electric shock, and suddenly Molly wasn't aware of anything but Irene- one hand on Molly's neck, the other on her hip, the way she kissed her, soft and sweetly, the feel of her long brown hair between Molly's fingers, and oh God her lips on Molly's. Molly wanted to stay here forever, kissing Irene like nothing else in the world mattered, letting Irene explore her mouth and just relishing the moment.

But Molly gradually became aware of the world outside of her little bubble of happiness. She remembered that she was dripping wet, that Irene was entirely naked, that there was a cockroach crawling up the wall across from them.

This wasn't okay.

Suddenly everything was wrong. Molly Hooper was standing in a puddle of rainwater in a cheap motel room kissing a dominatrix- a _female_dominatrix- and that wasn't okay at all. The room began to spin slightly and Molly felt dizzy and even Irene's soft lips were too wet and too wrong and Irene's right hand was slipping lower and no no no no no-

"No!" Molly gasped out, and tumbled backward, out of Irene's reach. She landed on her back on the bed and Irene stared down at her, baffled.

"What-"

"I don't want this," Molly blurted out, and a voice in her head was screaming and she was absolutely miserable and Irene was still staring at her with something in her eyes that Molly didn't want to identify and the room felt claustrophobic and stifling. Molly pushed herself off the bed and practically ran to the door, wrenching it open and dashing out into the rain.

It was only when she closed the door behind herself that she recognized the expression on Irene's face.

It was almost like heartbreak.

Luckily, however, within the next two hours that Molly spent sitting in the driver's seat of her car, she came to the conclusion that it couldn't possibly have been that, because Irene was Irene and besides, didn't she have feelings for Sherlock or something? Yes, of course.

So why had she kissed Molly?

It was a game, Molly decided. Irene used sex to get what she wanted and she must have wanted something from Molly, and then she was upset that she didn't get it. That was all.

It was, to be honest, a bit unsatisfying, but Molly repeated it to herself over and over so that she wouldn't develop any silly ideas or hopes.

Hopes?

Molly had no hopes. Especially none that had anything to do with Irene. Molly was straight, so why could she possibly want anything from Irene? She was straight and she hadn't enjoyed that kiss in the least and she certainly wasn't having a major sexual identity crisis in the front seat of her car.

She was also terrible at lying to herself.

Raindrops pattered on the windshield, forming a dull drone in the background of her increasingly confusing thoughts. It was gentle though, like the sound of Toby's padded footsteps on the bare wood of her bedroom floor. Molly was seized by a sudden homesickness, a crippling desire to be home and warm and safe and have everything _make sense_.

This fantasy was quickly shattered when her phone buzzed next to her. Molly didn't even have to look at it to know it was Irene texting her. Irene, who had kissed her. Naked.

And when she got down to it, that was what bothered her the most. Not that it was Irene, not that she might be gay, but the fear that she was just another girl Irene had snogged. Lord knows Irene must have kissed so many girls, Molly mused, especially with her work. Hell, Irene made a living out of sex. It was silly and irrational, but Molly wanted to mean more than that. She wanted their kisses to be special. Not in the middle of a gross motel room while Molly was soaking wet.

Because yes, Molly wanted to kiss Irene again. But she wanted it to be memorable, magical even. Because Irene laughed at her stupid morgue jokes and Irene liked her even though she was awkward and Irene knew what it felt like to be used. But Irene was fire and Molly was water, and Irene burned so brightly that she blinded those who crossed her path, and Molly kind of drizzled faintly like the rain falling down the window of her car. Some part of Molly needed her, needed Irene to balance her out and teach her how to burn without flickering or sputtering out.

And so Molly checked her phone.

_Come inside. I promise I won't kiss you._

And she could so picture Irene saying that, pouting flirtatiously, and it just hurt to think about. She'd been stupid but the kiss had been wrong and she didn't know what to say, how to explain that she wanted her but she wanted something deeper that Irene probably didn't even care about.

But Molly felt herself moving anyway, opening the door and stepping out into the night where the rain and the stars twinkled above her. She looked up and remembered Irene's bubbly laugh ringing out across an empty field and it spurred something on inside of her. She found herself dripping onto the doormat, fumbling for her key. Breathe, she told herself. So she breathed and swung the door open.

Irene was fully clothed (thank God) and sitting on the chair, actually reading. Her phone was sitting on the table beside her, out in the open. Normally she guarded that phone with her life, and there was something jarring about seeing it exposed like this.

But there was also something comforting, a message that made Molly feel warm and soft. Irene trusted her. Irene really and truly trusted her.

"Come on in," Irene said, "don't be shy."

"Hello," said Molly, because she really didn't know what else to say.

Irene sighed and put down her book. "Look, I'm sorry about earlier. But we can just forget about it, alright? Now you go shower and don't worry, I can sleep on the floor tonight, if you like."

Molly didn't like that at all. "Really, it's fine, I don't mind."

Irene was giving her an Irene stare, analyzing her and seemingly stripping her down to her most basic components. Molly felt herself blush, quickly stammered, "I'll just go shower then," and fled.

The water was gloriously hot and Molly scrubbed herself harder than usual, as if trying to scrub away all the awkwardness brought on by that evening. She stepped out of the shower and found her pajamas waiting for her. Relishing the sensation of the clean cotton against her skin, she nearly forgot about Irene entirely until she walked into her five seconds later.

At Molly's insistence, they did indeed share the bed, though Irene was careful to leave a large gap between them. Molly resented that gap deeply, the gaping chasm which divided the two of them. But she didn't comment on it, didn't reach for Irene, just lay there in the darkness and wondered how she'd ever fall asleep.

Irene's whisper broke the silence. "I really am sorry."

"Me too."

"No, really. I shouldn't have pushed you."

Molly felt her heartbeat quicken. "I didn't really mind, actually."

She could hear Irene's smirk. "You seemed to at the time."

"Well, I, um, I did want it... I just..."

"It's okay."

They paused. Molly felt like the world's greatest idiot and resisted the urge to roll over and scoop Irene into her arms. She just wanted to hold her, run her fingers through her hair and be able to touch her, skin against skin.

"What now?" Irene asked. She was asking what Molly was comfortable with, she realized. It was up to her. She decided the boundaries.

Molly closed her eyes and imagined the time and place that would let her hold Irene like she wanted to.

"Can we start over?"


	6. Chapter 6

A.N: Hi guys! Sorry for the late update, exams and graduations and whatnot. But here it is, the 6th exciting installment, brought to you mostly by my amazing beta, Lauren. Thanks for all the wonderfully kind reviews thus far, and enjoy! :D

* * *

"I keep telling you, Molly, he's _fine._"

"I know, I know," Molly assured him, biting her lip anxiously. "I just wanted to make sure, that's all."

"Has anyone ever told you that you treat this cat like it's your child?"

Molly chose to ignore this. "And he's got a vet appointment on Tuesday, would you mind terribly taking?"

Greg groaned. "I know, Molly, you've told me three times. When are you coming home?"

She paused, absentmindedly scratching at the embroidery on the motel pillow. "I don't know."

"Where are you?"

"Poland?"

"Jesus. You're not alone, are you?"

"Of course not." Well, technically she was alone in the motel room, but she was pretty sure that wasn't what he was asking. But she didn't even know where to begin about Irene... how do you describe someone who's practically a storm wrapped up in a person's body? "I'm with a friend. Look, I've gotta go... say hi to Toby for me, please? And thanks so much for everything you're doing..."

Greg sighed. "Just take care of yourself, okay?"

"Okay." She hung up and stared at the pillow some more, noticing that the threads in the corner were fraying. She wondered if that was her fault. Probably.

As if on cue, the door swung open and Irene flew in, carrying loads of bags and two travel cups of coffee. "Get up, get dressed," she sang, dumping the suitcases unceremoniously beside the bed.

"Get dressed?" Molly asked. She was already dressed- maybe not very elegantly, but she was at least presentable. "For what?"

Irene's eyes sparkled mischievously as she handed Molly a coffee. "We, my dear, are going on a date."

Molly's jaw dropped. "A... date?" she repeated stupidly. "But-"

Irene rolled her eyes. "Of course. We're engaged, aren't we? That's what people _do_."

Engaged. Right. So this was all part of the act. Not a real date at all.

Molly felt an inexplicable twinge of disappointment.

"I don't have anything to wear," she mumbled.

"Oh don't be silly," Irene laughed. "That's why I brought this!" She reached in the first bag and pulled out something shiny and blue and tossed it at Molly, who flailed and failed to catch it.

Embarrassed, Molly climbed over the bed to where the dress had landed in a crumpled heap on the floor. Upon closer inspection, it was practically perfect- a simple blue evening dress made out of the sort of vaguely shimmery material that Molly had always begged her mother to buy for her.

It was, in short, too good.

"I can't wear this," Molly protested.

"Of course you can," Irene scoffed, pulling out her own dress. Molly felt the beginnings of panic welling up inside of her and turned to face Irene.

"Really, I can't," she said.

Irene looked up and seemed to notice Molly's distress. Her eyes softened and she lowered her voice. "You_ can_," she insisted, "and you'll look beautiful. Please. My treat."

And Molly knew that she couldn't say no to that.

As she dressed in the bathroom she heard Irene ranting about the merits of the location of the date ("You'll love it, dear, there's a cat painted on the sign") and tried to quench her mounting anxiety. She hadn't been on a real date since Jim and, well, that wasn't an experience she wanted to relive. But this was going to be insanely fancy, if the dress was any indication, and Molly wasn't sure she was ready for that. Especially when things were so tense between her and Irene.

Because things _were_tense, despite Irene's easygoing manner. Ever since the kiss, the car had been filled with a suffocating awkwardness that Molly, who had always been especially susceptible to such things, was unable to ignore. When she'd asked Irene if they could start over she hadn't realized the implications of going slowly. Sometimes she glanced over at Irene and felt a sudden urge to reach over and kiss her, to meld their lips together and stay that way forever.

She really didn't understand how Irene had managed to have such an effect on her.

Irene was banging on the bathroom door now, asking "Aren't you done yet?" impatiently, and so Molly checked her hair in the mirror one last time and then opened the door.

Irene was dressed in a strapless red gown and looked absolutely breathtaking (well, more so than usual, Molly's brain added), yet what stunned Molly the most was not Irene's appearance but the expression on her face.

"Is this okay?" she asked worriedly.

Irene closed her mouth and whispered, "You're gorgeous."

Molly felt her face go red and a sense of pride creep up inside of her. She'd rendered Irene Adler speechless. That, in and of itself, was quite an achievement.

* * *

The restaurant was, indeed, a monumental establishment. As they waiting in the capacious hallway outside the dining room, Molly heard the hum of conversation and the faint chords of a violin.

"Reservation for Undershaw?" Irene asked.

"Certainly." The waiter, a rather young man with a kind smile, offered them gold-tassled menus and guided them to a table. As they meandered between tables full of chattering couples, Irene slipped her hand into Molly's, interlacing their fingers. The waiter gave them a knowing wink as he seated them beside a large window.

The moment he left Molly leaned across the table and whispered conspiratorially, "This place is really posh."

Irene laughed at that, filling Molly with the same gratification she always felt when she'd managed to amuse her. "And they've even got live music!" she replied, pointing at a pudgy old man crouched in the corner. Despite his inelegant appearance, his bow danced lightly across the strings of his violin, twisting and sliding to its own beautiful choreography.

"To be honest," Molly admitted, gazing up at the twinkling chandelier above them, "I've never been anywhere as fancy as this." She'd dreamed about it, of course, when she was little- ballrooms and princesses and such nonsense, but she'd always imagined such places to be otherworldly, to belong to a culture that wasn't hers. Though looking at Irene, who sat in the hand-carved chair as if she belonged there (unlike Molly's awkward perching on the edge of the cushion), it seemed very likely that Irene was quite used to this kind of thing. She felt suddenly out of place, like she didn't belong in the restaurant and certainly not across from Irene, who could've just walked off of the cover of some celebrity magazine, judging by her looks and class. If Irene noticed her discomfort she didn't say anything, but merely looked down at the wine choices listed on her menu.

The food came in multiple courses, all served in ridiculously small portions on disproportionately large white plates. Molly decided not to comment on the absurdness of it all, but instead politely nibbled at the tiny foods and wondered why they were so expensive.

Finally Irene lifted a small disk of meat on her fork and wiggled it. "This is not nearly enough food to feed a person."

Molly snickered, but she felt a wave of relief at not being the only one surprised by the serving sizes of their meal. She looked up at Irene, who was daintily dabbing at her mouth with a white napkin, and felt a sudden surge of affection for her, for this ridiculously attractive and unnecessarily mysterious woman who still was able to laugh at ritzy restaurants just as much as Molly did. Without thinking she blurted out, "What are we?"

Irene stopped, her napkin halfway back to her lap. "What do you mean?"

Molly flushed and cursed herself for starting this topic of conversation. "Us. Um. Where do we stand?"

Irene's grin stretched across her face. "Why, we're engaged, Jenny darling," she purred.

Molly resisted the urge to roll her eyes and persevered forward. "No, I mean us. Irene and Molly."

The smile disappeared. "I don't understand."

Feeling stupid and awkward and childish all at once, Molly asked, "Are we a thing?"

Irene laughed and for once, rather than feeling pleased, Molly felt annoyed. "I thought you didn't want that."

"I... I might not mind," Molly mumbled, fumbling with the hem of the tablecloth.

"What do you mean by 'thing?' As in, casual sex thing or relationship thing?"

Molly felt her face go crimson at the mention of the word "sex" (stupid Molly, you're not a child anymore, _grow up_) and, glaring at the tablecloth as if it had personally wronged her, whispered, "I don't know."

"Look," Irene sighed, leaning across the table and tilting Molly's head up. "I don't do the whole sweethearts thing. Last time I fell in love I was nearly killed, and I'm not stupid enough to repeat dangerous mistakes."

"Right," said Molly, not feeling all right at all. "I'm just going to go get some air, if you don't mind." She stood up abruptly, almost knocking her chair over, and stumbled out into the hallway of the building.

"Everything okay?" a small voice asked, and she turned around to see the same man who had seated them.

"Yes, mostly," she replied politely, trying to regain her composure. "We might be almost done though, I think."

"Right. Should I send the check to your table then?"

"Erm, yes. That'd be lovely."

He looked at her more closely and then quietly asked, "Do you need to talk about it?"

"About what?" Her attempt at obliviousness was blindingly obvious, and she felt a bit stupid for even trying.

"Oh, you don't have to, I just... I'm good at listening, is all."

Just as Molly smiled at him gratefully, Irene strode in, glanced between the waiter and Molly and quickly wrapped her arm tightly (and surprisingly protectively) around Molly. "Thank you so much for a _lovely_meal," she gushed. "But we really must be going."

She dragged Molly outside, where Molly finally managed to disentangle herself. "What was that?"

"I should be asking you the same question," Irene huffed, and Molly noticed that for the first time in their brief acquaintance Irene was sincerely angry.

"What did I do?"

"What did you do? Molly, we have to at least maintain the pretense of a happy relationship, you can't go around flirting with every boy who winks at you!"

Molly gaped. "I wasn't flirting."

"Yes, you were. Why were you talking to him?"

"How's it your business anyway? You don't even care about me, you said so."

"No, I said that I wasn't going to fall in love with you, there's a _difference_."

"Well, it still hurt, because you know bloody well that I'm in love with you and-" Molly broke off and covered her mouth with both hands. Stupid, stupid Molly, why'd she have to go and ruin everything? And now she'd told Irene how she felt and there was no going back on that one... and the worst part was, she hadn't even realized how true her statement was until it came flying out of her mouth. She'd been aware of her own startling attraction to Irene, yes, but it wasn't until she admitted it that she realized she'd spent the past few days falling madly in love with her companion.

Irene, for the second time that day, was speechless. She stared at Molly as if she'd just had some kind of extraordinary revelation and then, eyes flickering over Molly's shoulder, grabbed her by the hand and pulled her into the alleyway.

"What-" Molly managed before Irene clapped her hand over her mouth. With her other hand Irene fumbled in her purse and pulled out a gun. Molly's eyes widened.

It happened in a flash: the man rounded the corner and Irene sprang upon him, her gun coming solidly into contact with his head and knocking him to the ground. He sprang back up, though, and launched himself at Irene, sending her gun flying. Survival instincts kicking in, Molly dropped to the ground and scrambled for the gun, but a heavy black boot landed on her hand with a crunch. She looked up and the man was leering predatorily at her.

"Nice try, sweetheart," he cooed.

"Don't call her that," Irene gritted out from somewhere to Molly's left, out of her peripheral.

"Here's the deal," the man said triumphantly. "You tell me where our dear friend Sherly is."

"Or?"

Irene, thought Molly, you really shouldn't sound so cocky when this man is probably armed and neither of us are.

And yep, as if confirming her fears, there was a click and suddenly cold metal pressed against her neck. She heard Irene gasp softly.

"Or else," he threatened simply.

"I don't know where he is," Irene lied, and Molly detected a tremor of fear in her voice.

So either Molly was going to die or Sherlock was. Well. In Molly's opinion, that left her one choice. She felt sweat on her palms and knew that in reality she was a terrified mess, but tried to keep her calm for at least two more seconds.

One.

Two. And she swung her free hand up and grabbed the wrist of the man and twisted. He yelped and jumped back and she reached for the gun and sprang onto her feet and the shot rang out in the otherwise empty alleyway.

It took a second for the pain to register on Irene's face, but then she crumpled to the ground.

It took two seconds for Molly to turn on her heel and pull her own trigger, firing directly at the unguarded torso of the man who'd just shot the woman she loved.


	7. Chapter 7

**A.N**. Oh gosh, a billion apologies for late update. Will sell soul for forgiveness. Here's a resolution to the cliffhanger, at least?

* * *

Molly Hooper's first experience with death was at the age of six, thanks to the tragic mortality of Bunny, her first pet (this was before she began to develop any sort of creativity with nomenclature). She'd cried, of course; she was six and her rabbit was dead, no one blamed her. But as she grew up she became more and more comfortable with death. She saw it as a fact of life: you lived and died, the end. It didn't bother her. This gave her many advantages in the morgue, where some of the other workers would gag upon seeing particularly gruesome corpses and so she'd perform the autopsy by herself, unperturbed.

But this was slightly different. For the first time in her life, the dead man lying in front of her had been killed by her bullet.

Her head began to swim a bit and she felt dizzy. She remembered all the cadavers with gunshot wounds she'd worked with and tried to convince herself he was one of them, just another dead body.

Focus, Molly. You don't have time for this, she thought. What about Irene?

Irene. Shit.

She spun around and rushed to Irene's side. She couldn't tell if it was a puncture wound or a graze, but Irene was losing blood fast.

"Hold on," she whispered. "We'll get you to a hospital, okay? Just hold on."

"Am I okay?" asked Irene.

"No," said Molly, who had never had a great bedside manner. "Just hold on."

She pulled out her mobile and started to dial 112.

"What are you doing?" Irene hissed. "The body, remember?"

Right. Shit. Shitshitshit.

Molly's head was now spinning and she felt ready to throw up. Her beautiful dress was now soaked with Irene's blood and Irene was clenching her teeth in pain.

"Can you walk?"

"I can try," Irene quavered. Molly reached for her hands and pulled her onto her feet. Irene swayed a bit, but Molly wrapped her arm around her waist and held her tightly.

"Come on, come on," she urged. Irene began to mumble something and fainted. Her body curved gracefully and she slumped in Molly's arms. Gently Molly laid her back down on the ground and kneeled by her, feeling helpless.

"Come on," she muttered. "Wake up, you've got to get up!"

It was then that she realized she was crying, tears streaming down her face. She did her best to wipe them away with the palm of her hand but she was useless and Irene was bleeding and everything she was trying wasn't working and she only knew how to deal with bodies, not save lives.

"You've got to get up," she repeated, trying hard not to sob. "You can't leave me. Please."

And in an impulse, she swooped down and kissed her. It was a chaste kiss, not at all like the one in the hotel room, and it didn't relieve her feelings so much as make her cry harder, and Irene didn't wake up.

"Is everything okay?"

Molly looked up and saw a red haired woman standing in the entrance to the alleyway. Her gaze swept from the dead man to Irene's unconscious form, and a flicker of emotion- confusion, maybe? - passed over her face.

"Please, I need help," Molly tried, figuring that this was her last chance. "Can you take us to a hospital?"

"Of course," said the woman. "Yes, of course. Do you need help lifting her?"

Molly reached down and tried to pull Irene up off the ground. It didn't work.

"Erm, if you could help, please..."

"Naturally!"

The woman came over, gingerly stepping around the pools of blood on the ground, and lifted Irene's feet. "My car's just down the street."

They dragged Irene over as quickly as possible and set her up in the backseat, Molly climbing in behind her. The woman pulled out and began to drive. Molly reached over and took Irene's pulse. She was still alive, at least.

"Sorry about the blood," she volunteered.

"It's okay, I can clean the seats."

"This is very kind of you, I can't think how to repay-"

"No need," the woman cut her off, waving her hand. "I'm happy to help."

Molly turned her attention back to Irene, who was breathing shallowly. With a twinge of regret, she tore a strip off of her own dress and tried to use it to slow down the flow of blood from the wound.

"Friend of yours?" the woman asked.

"Fiancée, actually," Molly replied, trying to remember their backstory. Irene was Catherine, right? Catherine Undershaw.

"How long have you been engaged?"

"Is this really the time?" Molly snapped, and immediately felt guilty. The stranger had been nothing but kind to her, but her stress over Irene made everything else look trivial in comparison. "I'm sorry," she mumbled.

"Look. You're panicking and you need to calm down. I'm just trying to help. Tell me about her."

Molly breathed out slowly, glancing over at Irene. She looked so peaceful, slouched against the window, as if she was merely asleep. "She's odd," she started cautiously. "She's not like anyone I'd ever met before. Well, at first I thought she was, but... She's different. She's funny and thoughtful and spontaneous and kind of crazy but it's okay. She's absolutely brilliant and she kisses like it's the end of the world. Her favorite kind of tea is mint and she loves to look at the stars..." Molly started crying again, but once she'd begun she couldn't stop. "We met through a mutual friend. It was something stupid, for work or whatever. And we didn't really get on at first, but we got to know each other and... I dunno. I'd never really liked girls before, but she... You've got to meet her, she's the most incredible person in the world. I just... I need her. Like I've never needed anyone, ever. And if I have to go on without her..." Molly choked back a sob.

"It's okay," the woman murmured soothingly. "She'll be fine. We're almost there."

Molly looked over at the unconscious Irene and held her limp hand as the car pulled into the circle in front of the hospital.

The next few hours were a hellish blur, a pandemonium of doctors and nurses and surgical equipment and filling out forms and startlingly white waiting rooms. Occasionally an older nurse (Maja, her nametag read) would come in to inform Molly of vague updates in thickly accented English. At times Molly fell into shades of a dreamless sleep, sagging against the green plastic cushions of the couch and letting herself slip blearily into unconsciousness. Maja, a stern short-haired woman who happened to be the only nurse there to speak any English, often popped in and asked Molly if she just wanted to go home until she was allowed to visit Irene, but Molly couldn't bring herself to leave. She kept running through the incident in her mind, over and over, finding all the little moments where she could have done something different, ought to have been able to save her. She thought of the woman who had saved Irene, saved Molly too, a complete stranger who had dropped from the sky and asked for no thanks. She'd pulled Molly aside just before she left, into the corner by a flowerpot, and whispered, "She's going to be fine."

"How do you know?" Molly asked, incredulous.

The woman tapped her nose. "Call it a hunch. Keep me updated." She wrapped her scarf around her neck, patted Molly on the back, and swept away like she hadn't just saved someone's life.

It was four in the morning when she was visited by Maja for the last time.

"She's okay," the nurse began, and Molly sunk down in her seat, overwhelmed with relief. "You are very lucky, the bullet missed her bone and major veins. She is resting now."

"Can I see her?" Molly blurted out, unable to wait.

Maja frowned disapprovingly at her. "She needs to sleep."

"But if I promise not to wake her up-"

"No."

"Please? I just need to see that she's okay."

Maja sighed at the ceiling and muttered something to herself. "Fine," she finally responded. "As long as you don't wake her."

Irene looked so peaceful as she slept, her dark hair spread out like a halo across the white pillow. Her arm was wrapped in bandages and her skin was a shade paler than usual. Molly gingerly sat down in the wooden chair next to her, careful not to make any noise. She watched Irene's stomach rise up and down, watched her breathe in and out, and felt so relieved she couldn't speak, even if she wanted to. Maja smiled at her, a tight, thin-lipped smile, and then crept out, shutting the door behind her.

Molly reached out with a trembling hand and smoothed Irene's sheets. She stroked her hair and then gently took her hand, holding it as if it was made of precious crystal. She remembered the first time they met, shaking Irene's hand so carefully, as if it might break, remembered looking into her green eyes and not knowing anything about her. Irene Adler, a mystery then, remained a mystery now, but a different one; one that Molly had learned to work with, to understand, to love.

She fell asleep in the hard wooden chair, fingers still wrapped around Irene's, and when she woke a few hours later, Irene's other hand was resting on her own.


	8. Chapter 8

**A.N. **A billion apologies for the lateness! Vacations and summer work and such like are terrible evils that try to prevent me from writing. Thanks to Lauren, my beta, and double thanks to all you beautiful people who read this... Your feedback is wonderful, and i love you guys muchly!

Ps. how would you guys feel if the rating went up slightly?

* * *

"You're an idiot."

"You got yourself shot in the arm!"

A smile played on Irene's lips. "And you're overprotective."

"I am not!" Molly cried.

Irene quirked an eyebrow. "You didn't want to get the car because you'd have to leave me alone for ten minutes."

"That's what made sense. There are people trying to kill us, Irene."

"I was in a _hospital_. There's no danger there. And I don't need to be babied."

"It doesn't matter," Molly huffed.

"Oh, are you pouting?" Molly remained resolutely silent. "You are, aren't you?"

Molly took a risk and glanced at Irene out of the corner of her eye. The woman was outright grinning, as if she took some sort of sick pleasure in teasing Molly. Disgusting. Molly glared forward at the road and tried not to let her matching grin escape onto her face.

They pulled up in front of the motel. "D'you want to stay in the car?" Molly asked, as innocently as possible. Irene glared at her. "I'll just pop in and pack up our stuff, I wouldn't want you to injure your arm..."

Irene sniffed haughtily and opened the door with her free arm. "Of _course_I'm coming."

"Oh, don't worry, I really won't pressure you to do anything, I'll just-" Her taunt was cut off the moment she pushed the door open. The room was completely trashed, their clothes and things thrown haphazardly all over the floor, their bedsheets tangled, the curtains flung open. Molly gaped.

"That's a bit of a mess," Irene cooed over her shoulder. Molly resisted the urge to kick her.

"Look for the box!" She told Irene as she dove into the chaos, creating even more clutter as she searched for the package Sherlock had entrusted to them.

"I thought you didn't want me to hurt my arm."

"_Irene_!"

"Fine. Here." Molly looked up and Irene was holding the package out to her.

"Where..."

"Under the bed. As I left it."

"The bed?" Molly puzzled. "Wouldn't they have found it?"

"Clearly, no one was looking for it... it must have been something else."

Molly pondered this, kneeling back on a pile of clothes. What else could anyone possibly want from them?

"Did we pack anything else valuable?"

Irene shrugged. "That's a relative term."

Molly let her head droop and ran a tired hand through her tangled hair. She hadn't gotten much sleep since Irene's hospitalization, and it was beginning to wear her down.

Unfortunately, this position gave her a magnificent view of what exactly she was sitting on. She jumped up with a yelp.

"Th-th-those are _not_mine," she stammered. Nothing she owned was that lacy or revealing.

"Ah," said Irene matter-of-factly. "I was looking for those."

Molly sunk down onto the bed. "God, I need to sleep," she muttered.

"Do you want me to drive?" Irene suggested.

"Nah, I'll be fine."

Irene smiled, as if laughing at some private joke. "You don't trust me, do you?"

"Oh! No, I mean, yes, I mean, oh gosh, of _course_I trust you! I just wouldn't want to impose-"

"Really, it'd be nothing."

"You need to sleep too," Molly insisted. "You're still healing, remember?"

"Fine," Irene agreed, and then laughed. "Good, actually, I haven't driven in _years_. I wonder if I still know how."

They packed up their things as quickly as possible, taking inventory as they went. All that was missing was one of Irene's necklaces, and according to her, not a very important one.

"Oh, it doesn't matter," she drawled, dismissing Molly's concern with a wave of her hand. "Just a silly sentimental thing. I really don't need it. It was a gift, that's all."

When she thought Molly wasn't looking, Molly spied some hints of worry on her- creases in her forehead, her smile evaporated from her face- but they disappeared in an instant, and Irene beamed at her. "Shall we get going, then?"

They drove for miles without saying anything. Molly tried turning on the radio, but all that was playing (that was in her language, at least) was sappy love songs, which she decided she really didn't need to hear. Especially not next to Irene.

Unfortunately, for Irene they seemed to trigger conversation.

"So, about what you said just before I got shot-" Irene began.

"Oh no," Molly groaned. "Look, please, can we just forget-"

"You said you loved me." It wasn't a question.

Molly hesitated, weighing her options. "Yes," she said finally, "but-"

And Irene looked at her with wide, honest eyes and asked, "Why?"

Molly blinked and mumbled, "I don't know," and stared hard at the road, as if her gaze could cause her to sink into the concrete and disappear. It didn't work.

Luckily, Irene didn't press her. They rode the rest of the way to the next motel (this time, on the border between Poland and Belarus) in silence: Molly glancing between the road and her passenger, and the latter staring out the window, watching the scenery flash by. The silence felt like a blanket of awkwardness suffocating the inhabitants of the car, but Molly didn't know what else to say. She could tell that she'd messed up, but not how to fix it. Dealing with Irene was not like dealing with anybody else Molly knew. She was so used to second-guessing herself that the thought of opening up to someone seemed impossibly foreign. So instead she drove on, watching the sky fade into night and wishing she knew what to do.

This new motel room was small and cold, with only a thin blanket and shabby comforter to provide any semblance of warmth. Irene surveyed the situation with a calculating glare. Pretending to put away clothes, Molly peeked out and noticed how deeply her brow was furrowed in concentration. It was kind of adorable, a word she never thought she'd be able to apply to Irene.

"We could call and ask for more blankets," Irene recited from the list of possible solutions in her head. "We could wear extra layers, we could ask them to turn up the heat-," she looked up and her frown deepened, "we could shut that window..."

"It's stuck," Molly informed her.

Irene sighed. "Of course it is."

"We could huddle together for warmth?" Molly joked. Irene looked totally disarmed, like a deer in headlights.

"What?"

"You know, cuddle or whatever...?" Molly explained meekly.

Irene seemed to actually consider the suggestion. "Well, I suppose through our combined body heat... that could work. How do you propose we try it?"

Molly gaped. "Sorry?"

Irene looked vaguely uncomfortable. It was an odd look for her. "I don't have much experience in this area."

"You've never cuddled before?" Molly asked, incredulous.

"I've never had occasion," Irene sniffed.

"I just figured, with your work and, you know, things..."

"My clients don't come to me for comfort," Irene responded coolly.

"Right. Well then, okay. Let me teach you how to cuddle." Molly flashed her a nervous smile.

For someone with little to no experience, Irene had a remarkably good instinct when it came to the subject, and was a wonderfully fast learner. Naturally, there were a few terribly awkward moments where hands went where they shouldn't have gone, but in the end, they were snuggled together quite happily on the bed, legs intertwined, Molly's back pressed against Irene's chest and Irene's arms wrapped around her.

"Is this okay?" Molly asked.

"It's lovely," Irene breathed into her ear. "I can feel your heart beating," she added playfully.

"I know." Molly felt slightly giddy.

For a minute they just rested in that position, Irene leaning her face into Molly's neck and Molly pulling Irene tighter around her (carefully, though, because of her arm). Then Molly shifted and twisted round until she was facing Irene.

"It's true," she whispered in the dark.

"Hmm?"

"I love you," she started, and pressed a finger to Irene's lips before she could open her mouth. "I do. I love you because you're brash and spontaneous and yet sweet under everything. I love you because you're beautiful-not that it really matters-and brilliant. I love you because you can smile without moving your mouth at all, because you laugh at my jokes, because you bother to look up at the stars at night, because you try to pretend you're invincible but sometimes I still get to see you vulnerable and because... you're you. And I love you that way."

She took in a deep breath. She was sick of hiding, of secrets, of pink sparkly diaries filled with untold confessions. In the past that had gotten her nothing, except maybe a broken heart. All cards on the table, she told herself. For one time in her life, Molly took a risk, and was 100 percent open about how she felt.

And it was met with silence.

Silence, and then:

"Every time I fall in love I get hurt. And everyone who falls in love with me ends up hurt too, somehow."

Molly let out the breath she'd been holding. This she could deal with. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I always end up hurt anyhow."

"But..." Irene seemed to be struggling for the right words. "I don't want that to happen to you. You're not like the others."

"Oh. So… is that a no?"

Irene laughed softly. "No. But it's not a yes."

"If it's any help, I'm really scared too."

"I'm not scared." But Irene wouldn't meet Molly's gaze, and Molly knew it was a lie.

"Sometimes things take risks and I know it's terrifying. But I love you, and if you're ever ready, I think I'm willing to take that risk. Just, um. Just so you know."

When Irene didn't respond, Molly buried her face in the crook of Irene's neck, breathing in the scent of her perfume and the warmth rising from her skin. She couldn't think of anything else to say Instead she just held onto Irene, and together, huddled under a thin comforter and with the twinkling light of the stars streaming in through the open window, they fell asleep.


End file.
